


At the end of all things

by Manchanification



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst, Because apparently I want to make you cry today, Character Death(s), Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, Or try to anyway, Post Trespasser, The Calling, Trespasser Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 10:18:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8485546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manchanification/pseuds/Manchanification
Summary: Post Trespasser (Spoilers ahoy).After the last decade spent drinking his life away, Alistair finds an unlikely companion at the end of his days.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if this is worth sharing, but it was rolling around in my head for a while and now...here it is. So....yeah. Sorry, in advance?

Turns out, it's a small world after all. 

No wait. Scratch that. Small wasn't the word he was looking for, was it? So what was it?

Ah, that's it. Sucky. It's a sucky world, after all.

Take his own life, for example.

He'd been someone once. Sort of. Back in Ferelden, all those years ago. He'd been a hero or...well, almost a hero. Tantalisingly close to being one, before Amell had ruined it all. Back in the golden days of darkspawn, blood and blight.

He could have been king. A bastard king, probably a very poor king, but a king, nonetheless. And his heart would have been in the right place. He'd wanted to help people then, when he still believed that people weren't bigger bastards than him. He'd have been firm, but kind, or try to be, and he'd have been respected for it. A benevolent ruler who'd only ever had his heart in the right place.

Not like Anora. That bitch wouldn't know benevolence if it had waved a white flag in her pretty pinched face. Which it had. 

He supposed it could have been worse. If Anora had gotten her way, he'd have died on her hangman's noose. Instead, Amell had seen fit to plead for his life. Funny, that sod's perceptions and priorities. Loghain wandered free, pardoned, proclaimed a hero, thanks to Amell, despite his hand in Cailan's death and the demise of the Grey Wardens. And here he was, the son of Maric, the last of the Theirin bloodline of Ferelden, sitting in some street in...

Well. He didn't know where. Somewhere in Orlais, probably. It looked snooty enough and he couldn't have pronounced the names even if he hadn't been too drunk to read them. And that accent. What was the Maker thinking when he created people with that accent? Come to think of it, what had he been thinking to create people at all?

Bastards. Every last one of them.

If it hadn't been for Amell...

No. To be fair... the man had only done what he'd always done. Looked for the best way out of the Blight. And saving Loghain's sorry backside had done that. Just, at his expense.

Amell had forced him to leave...but he hadn't forced him to Kirkwall. He hadn't forced him to drink himself stupid day after day. Hadn't forced him to tell Teagan to sod off back to Redcliffe and live out the rest of his sorry days in this state. That had been his own choice.

A bad choice. A choice that had led to ten blurry years of drinking and sleeping on filthy floors of taverns. And now in the streets of some Orlesian city. Who was he to have questioned Amell when this was what happened when he was allowed to make decisions for himself? His life squandered because he hadn't known how to act like an adult, because it was easier to be bitter about it all than accept that maybe, just maybe, he'd made a mistake.

But it was all a bit late for epiphanies now, wasn't it? A bit late for saying sorry and crawling back to Teagan with his tail between his legs, now that the song was in his mind.

It had been there for too long now. He'd thought to answer it earlier, perhaps sober himself up enough to go down to the deep roads and die as a warden should. But sitting in his own little world of misery had been so much easier and now... well. Now his hands shook, and his head ached and every sense was dulled to the point that the world seemed a washed out grey scene before him. 

When was it that it had started? Months ago, perhaps? Sometime after he'd fled Kirkwall, when the mage rebellion had started. He remembered his head being clear enough then, save for the drink addling his mind. Remembered flames and blood and screaming... but no. That must have been years ago now. He'd reached this city long after that, stumbled in through the gates overnight and crawled into some grotty hole and waited to die. 

And then it had started.

Pausing his thoughts, he blinks through the bleary haze that makes up his vision now, trying to make sense of it. It would have taken weeks for someone in the best health to walk from Kirkwall to the borders of Orlais...and he'd not been in much of a state for walking then. Not with his need for drink and his leg damaged as he'd fled. It must have been months to get here and months more that he'd spent in this state. 

No...the calling, that was relatively recent. It hadn't yet started when he'd arrived here.

He blinks again, lifting his head to look up through at the narrow streak of sky between the tall clustered building that made up this neighbourhood. The buildings had been white and blue once, though the paint had long since started flaking away in sheets, exposing the brick work that lay below and no one in these parts cared enough to repair it.

Kind of like himself, he mused. Him and his new companion that is, something that was bright and beautiful once, now cast aside and left to rot. Not that he'd ever been beautiful but this wreck of a man beside him...he remembered him back in the day. 

Such a small, cruel world.

He leans over to the man who lies curled in a ball next to him, breathing ragged and shuddering, and prods him in the small of the back, trying to get his attention.

There's no response. 

That's normal. His companion rarely spoke a word, if it wasn't begging for the lyrium he so desperately needed. He had only found him a few days ago, but it had been apparent the moment he'd stumbled into him that he was in the final stages of lyrium withdrawal. Normally he would have just left someone in such a state. He had his own problems to deal with and one more ex-templar who had dared to defy the Chantry wasn't one of them. At least...not until he'd realised who it was he'd tripped over.

The mass of once golden curly hair was a giveaway.

It's matted to his head now, thick with grease and grime, hanging past the nape of his neck, darkened to a dull straw colour. Stubble has given way to a full beard, just as filthy as his hair, patchy in places, all manner of things crusted into its wiry mess. 

It's a shock to see such a man in this state now, always so tidy, so well groomed in a way that was ever so slightly rugged, just a hint of rebellion to this soldier.

It's all lost now, and the boy he'd once known at the chantry is unrecognisable. If he'd thought any of the other boys he'd bunked with would end up this way, Cullen Rutherford would have been the last one he would have put money on.

He'd heard all about Cullen of course. Once he'd left the Chantry to join the Wardens he'd bumped into him a handful of times; going to the circle to recruit mages and finding him there tortured and bowed but not quite broken and then when they'd both ended up in Kirkwall... not that they'd acknowledged each other. But he'd seen the then Knight-Captain in his role, his eyes darkened and wary but still undeniably Cullen. And then the rebellion had happened and they'd both fled that void of a city and while he had slumped away to die of drink, Cullen Rutherford had risen ever higher, Commander of the Inquisition.

They who rose highest, always fell furthest.

He'd never met a man more dedicated than he; unfalteringly dutiful, endlessly talented and through all the layers of his stern facade, a good man. A kind man. The type of man who didn't deserve to end his days like this.

He doesn't know how he got here. Fallen from the grace of the Inquisitor, perhaps? Or perhaps he had simply tired of it all. 

He wonders if his family know.

He'd asked him when he found him, propped him up against a wall and brushed the hair from his eyes, assaulted him with a barrage of questions. It had surprised even him to find how much he cared.

But there was nothing behind dulled brown eyes now. No spark, no life, no purpose. Just an endlessly searching gaze as he'd gasped 'lyrium, please' over and over again.

He'd wanted to leave then, with the boy he'd known now a man who could barely stand, but in the back of his mind, no matter how he knew it would be an inconvenience, he couldn't do it. He'd thrown a hand around his back and dragged him to his feet, guiding him as best as he could until he'd found the way back into the alley that he slept in these days. 

It wasn't much, a narrow passage between buildings, but it kept the worst of the weather off and sometimes, when the buildings were inhabited, a modicum of warmth would seep through the stonework from the fires inside. Tonight wasn't one of those times, and he'd thrown his scrap of material that he called a blanket over the other man, an attempt to stave off the cold as his breath crept into the air in soft white puffs.

There's a wheeze in Cullen's chest every time he inhales, a tell tale sign that an infection is claiming him. He won't fight it off much longer. There's no strength in his body, skin draped over bone, his belly stuck to his spine. Truth be told, he's not much better off himself, though he knows his belly – bloated from cheap ale – gives him the appearance of having eaten recently.

He hasn't. It's been days since his last meal, if you could call it that, no appetite left. He eats to survive, though he's not quite sure why any more. Between the sweet song in his mind that's occasionally drowned out by his thirst, food has become all but the lowest priority. It's only when his stomach knots painfully that he bothers to find something to quieten it...but even that pain is becoming minor in comparison to the ache in the rest of his body. 

And his meals, such as they are, he tries to share now. The scraps of food he scrapes together are unappetising at best, but he waves them under Cullen's nose regardless, hoping it might entice him to eat. So far, it hasn't, though he's at least managed to get a few sips of water past his chapped lips. 

He's not entirely sure why he bothers. It's clear to anyone that the man won't last much longer without lyrium and even if his body did somehow manage to thrive, his mind has long since broken. In some ways he supposes it would be kinder just to leave him, to let him die quicker than trying to keep him going. But it would be a harder death, more painful and he feels a certain responsibility for him, this man who was almost his brother in arms once.

A soft muttering next to him pulls his thoughts back to the present, and he glances down to his companion, shuddering beneath the ragged blanket. It's not uncommon for him to start speaking, though his words are usually meaningless, lost ramblings as his mind decays. He mentions people often; Mia, Branson, Rosalie. His siblings, whom he begs for forgiveness, along with his mother and father, both long dead, but he speaks as though they stand before him casting judgement upon him. And then there are others, people Alistair doesn't know; Dorian and Cassandra, Bull and Varric. More recent friends of his, he guesses, though none of them are here for him now, at the end of his days.

There are prayers too, and it's what slips past his lips tonight and he closes his eyes as he listens to the man's feverish praying, finding his own lips moving, following the words though he never speaks them aloud. He remembers faith. He remembers believing that the Maker watched over them, at least in the wider sense. He'd believed in a lot of things when he was younger.

He doesn't care to listen any more and he turns away, staggering upright. There's a bottle of ale stashed nearby that's calling his name, his mouth parched and he drags it from it's resting place before settling down again, a few feet further from his delirious charge. If there's one thing that will drown out Cullen and the Calling, it's the unconsciousness that his poison always promises.

–

Daylight wakes him. 

It's an unwelcome thing. It heralds nothing more these days than a stretch of hours to be filled with...well, with nothing. Perhaps a few bottles of beer, perhaps a few hours of begging, perhaps a few words from Cullen that could be considered conversational. If the man had any idea what he was saying, that was.

He blinks against the sunlight, its position almost fully overhead leaving him trapped in its glare despite the cover the tall buildings offer and he grumbles, heaving himself up on to trembling legs to move to somewhere darker. There's a headache behind his temples that pounds worse than usual and he's not sure whether it's the Calling or the fact he hasn't had a drink since he fell asleep. 

Probably both. Making his way to the far end of the alley he relieves himself before heading back to his stash, his liquid breakfast. There's a pang of panic when he rummages in the crate, finding nothing but empty bottles, and he remembers vaguely that he'd been running low. Definitely a day for begging then. For both of them.

Turning again, he looks to Cullen. Except he's not there. There's nothing but the pathetic scrap of blanket where he'd lain last night and somehow, his absence strikes harder into his chest than even the lack of liquor. It wasn't like him to wander off. He tended to just lie in one spot, unable to move, save for the odd moments of lucidity that prompted him to look around in the hope he'd find some lyrium. But he clearly wasn't anywhere to be seen and before he thinks anything further, Alistair finds himself hurrying through the winding passages of back alleys looking for him.

He's managed to go far, while he's been asleep, no sign of him in the local passages that made up the filthy back streets of this city. It means he has no idea where to look, certain that Cullen's health had been enough to restrict his movements to crawling up and down the length of the alley they occupied. 

'Now, where would I go if I were a lyrium starved ex-templar?' he wonders aloud to himself, wincing at how his voice chafes in his throat. 

There's only one place he could imagine that someone in Cullen's state would wander off to, the only likely source of lyrium in this place. 

He doesn't know where the chantry is, but he can recall that he found Cullen in the right sort of district and he staggers along through side streets, ignoring disdainful looks and gasps of disgust from the locals. Anyone would have thought they'd never seen a homeless drunkard before.

Perhaps they hadn't, but he cares little as he makes his way into broadening streets that make him fell uncomfortably exposed. He can't even remember why he'd come out this far in the first place, not that it matters now.

He rounds a familiar corner, recognising a run down bakery and there, on the corner opposite, he spots him. He's slouched against the hard wall of some building, shockingly upright, staring bleary eyed at a woman standing in front of him and Alistair slows his steps, watching her, suspicious. 

No-one ever took pity on the beggars here, especially those who could barely lift their heads, and yet the woman stood before him, studying him. As he edges closer, he makes out her details better. She's a squat woman, a dwarf, he realises, dressed in light armour, reaching out a hand as she speaks to Cullen, offering something.

When he makes no move to take it, she crouches, shuffling closer to him. Peering at his face, she nods, mostly to herself, replacing whatever is in her hand back into her pocket. Her shoulders set a moment later, rolled back, and he catches the motion of her hand as she reaches to her belt, pulling it free.

He knows that motion, that movement, and he's charging before he even sees the glint of the dagger's blade, barrelling into her with as much of his strength as he can muster, a roar on his lips as a long buried instinct to defend kicks in.

In retrospect, it's probably a bit much. For both of them. As weakened as he is these days, he's still so much larger than her, and his diminished bulk sends them both crashing to cobblestone ground. But she's healthier than he is, livelier too, and she fights him with a strength surprising for her small form. Vaguely, as she clambers on top of him, pinning his chest with her legs, he remembers Oghren, his filthy mutterings about dwarven women and how they were so much more...resilient, than elves or humans.

It doesn't take long for her to subdue him, and truth be told, now that he's distracted her from Cullen, he doesn't care to fight her. 

She, apparently, has other ideas, a defiant snarl on full lips, her dagger to his throat as a small hand seizes in his hair, dragging his head back. The slightest movement, and that blade will shear through his throat. He should be more alarmed by that, but somehow, they only thought he can muster as he struggles to tilt his head and meet her gaze, is that she has the prettiest green eyes.

'Why?!'

It's as demanding a question as he's ever heard, but beneath authority and anger, he catches the hitch, distress lacing her singular word.

'I...' he wheezes, feeling her weight on his chest, '...could ask you the same thing.'

She glares at him for that, though something shifts in her eyes and she glances over her shoulder to where Cullen still slumps. A moment, a clear thought process and she withdraws the blade, though she makes no move to climb off him.

'Who are you?' she asks after a moment, eyeing him, and she's just as perplexed by his actions as he is, her anger morphing into curiosity. 

He laughs, the noise hollow, the feeling strange in his chest.

'No one, I'm no one.'

'That's not what...do you have a name?'

He shrugs.

'The locals call me bastard. Among other, less... savoury things. If they call me anything at all.'

'Alright then, bastard, if that's what you want to be known as...,' she gestures to Cullen, 'how do you know him?'

'I don't. Not really. I knew him a long time ago and...found him here, a few days ago. Recognised him and thought...' he swallows, unsure of what he thought, '...he looked like he needed help and no one else was going to give it to him.'

'That's generous of you.' There's an edge of disbelief to her voice as she speak, her eyes hardening. 'Why help him? You seem to have enough problems of your own.'

'I...don't know. Just...like I said. I knew him a long time ago.' he coughs as he speaks, feeling his voice grate in his throat. It's been a long time since he's spoken so much and his throat seems to have forgotten how to do it at length. '...didn't seem right to just leave him.'

She stares at him again, silent, judging, until he begins to struggle underneath her weight, aware of the small crowd that gathered at the sight of their brief altercation. At the realisation, she stands, pulling her weight off him before addressing the crowd. She disperses them quickly, authoritative apologies and assurances and when the majority of the onlookers have lost interest she grabs him by the arm, tugging him back over to where Cullen lies.

'You know who he is then?' she asks, pointing to him. She won't look at him fully, as if there's something untoward about it...or perhaps just uncomfortable.

'He's....his name is Cullen,' he answers, watching as her eyes widen, surprised that he's aware of who he's caring for, 'Cullen Rutherford. He was a templar back in Ferelden...that's how I knew him. We trained together. Sort of.'

'I see.'

'And you?' he asks, curious now as to her own relation to the man beside them. 

'I...worked with him. Sort of.'

It's the first time he notices the details of her armour, the blazing eye on her breastplate now iconic and he suddenly realises;

'You're with the Inquisition...' 

Anger wells in his belly, churning his insides and setting his heart to an erratic beating and he glares up at the dwarf, with her pretty eyes and shiny dagger. No doubt she'd been sent to finish him off, to quietly cull anything that could tarnish the Inquisition's reputation. It made sense now...

'Yes. I'm a scout. Scout Harding.'

'And the Inquisition chooses to send scouts to do its dirty work now? Is your Inquisitor so untouchable that you can slaughter a man in the streets and no one will dare to question?'

'No! That's not...' her hands are in front of her, shaking, warding off his accusations as she meets his eyes, pleading, '...I wasn't sent here for the commander. I was just scouting the area ahead of next week's...it doesn't matter. I saw him and I wanted to help but...'

'But there's nothing you can do for lyrium withdrawal.' He finishes.

He wants to believe that she's lying to him, that there's malicious intent behind it all. It would suit him better to stay angry and bitter towards her, but the sorrow in her voice and eyes seems too genuine. She had called him commander. There was respect there still, for this man who'd fallen so far, pity and sympathy for someone she'd once looked up to.

She nods idly.

'I don't want to harm him I just...can't stand to see him suffer. He was a good man...a good commander. He doesn't deserve to end his life like this.'

Beside them, Cullen convulses, shuddering under the onslaught of his withdrawal, a thin moan escaping his throat. Dull eyes open briefly, falling on Scout Harding, lingering and for a moment hope blooms in his chest that Cullen might recognise her, that there might be something of him left to save. 

But his eyes fall closed again, without incident, no recognition flashing over his face and he slumps against the wall, as if that simple act was utterly exhausting.

'We should get him off the street,' he finds himself suggesting, wedging an arm behind Cullen's bony back, 'there's an alley over there that he can rest in.'

'An alley?' she shakes her head, 'No...I've a room at an inn a little way from here.'

'They won't let him in. Lyrium starved beggars and drunkards are bad for business,' he smiles, thinly, 'just...let's get him out of view.'

With a reluctant sigh, she nods, helping him get the other man upright. Together they guide him into a smaller side street, setting him down when they're far enough from prying eyes.

It's just as well it doesn't take long, he thinks as Cullen sinks to the floor. His own strength is failing, exhausted for the day and he all but collapses next to him, breathing hard. Harding looks up at him, concern present in those pretty eyes and he scowls back until she drops his gaze.

He doesn't want her pity or concern. It's easier to be on his own, with no one to judge him; his choices, his shitty mistakes.

'How did he get here?'

The question slips out unbidden from his lips, and he looks to Harding, the dwarf staring at Cullen's emaciated frame. The question seems to surprise her and it takes her a moment to answer.

'He resigned.'

'Resigned?' he echoes, disbelieving, and he doesn't bother to hold back his scoff, 'Cullen Rutherford wasn't the kind of man to resign. Not the one I knew, at any rate. What happened?' 

'I...' she sighs, 'I don't know the whole story but...from what I heard...he tried to stop taking it, the lyrium. Years ago now, not long after the Inquisition took up in Skyhold. Seeker Cassandra was supporting him and it was a big secret at the time. He never told anyone else but she told the Inquisitor and when he got involved...'

'Cullen tried to break his addiction?' he asks, watching as she nods.

'He wasn't a templar any more. Didn't want anything to do with it so he tried to stop and he managed...for a while but then Inquisitor Trevelyan found out and he ordered him to start again.'

Anger blooms in his chest again, drowning out confusion.

'Why would he stop him from trying to quit? It was his choice...'

'I...don't know. Some people say it made sense...that if he was going through withdrawal he wouldn't be able to serve properly...so he made him carry on taking it, keep him clear headed.'

'And what do the rest say?'

She shifts now, uneasy, eyes flicking to him, then Cullen, then back to the ground.

'...they never really got along. The Inquisitor's a mage and he hated the Circle at Ostwick. He always sided with the mages, and everyone said it was more to wind the commander up than any real tactic...'

'You mean...he made him carry on taking it...as a punishment?! For being a templar?!'

'...I...can't say for sure.'

The anger roiling in his belly is making him fidget, his hands clenches as his heart quickens, beating so hard it feels like it's going to break through his ribs at any moment.

These people...these so called heroes. How they hid behind their public images, masks of virtue and bravery to hide the destruction in their wake. 

He wonders how many others have been sacrificed and overlooked for the good of Trevelyan and his cause. More than even Amell, perhaps. At least he had the decency to decline any power, and had slunk off to Maker-only-knows where. But this Trevelyan still sat on his throne, power at his fingertips and all the malice to use it to get whatever he wanted.

Perhaps the man even believed he was right in doing so. Loghain certainly had, to the point where he had thought it an acceptable price to let his own king die and risk civil war. What was the life of a man like Cullen worth to people who thought that lives were theirs to spend?

He's been quiet for a long time, he realises, Harding creeping forwards to touch his arm and he recoils instantly. It's been so long since anyone's shown anything but contempt for him, he's not quite sure what to do with it.

'We didn't want this to happen. We didn't know any of it would go this far.'

'Who's we?'

'...Us. His friends. Dorian, Varric, Cassandra. The inner circle.'

'Friends, huh?' he questions, disbelief evident in his voice, 'Yeah...I know exactly what kind of friends they must be that no one decided to come after him. Where are they all now?'

'Well, he resigned and he was...always so rational. No one thought....I guess we all assumed he would go and find his siblings. And everyone's so busy...'

'Uh-huh. Yeah. Everyone's got their own problems, haven't they? And no one thinks or cares enough when the moment's passed to bother chasing up...'

'Speaking from experience there, are we?' she asks, and he scowls.

'I know what people like your inquisitor do. They draw people in, use them until their purpose is fulfilled and then cast them aside. And if they dare to question, or disagree? Then they get thrown away even quicker. And the rest of them, this inner circle, they sit by and watch and no one dares say anything, too scared or too enamoured with the hero to think for themselves.'

'Something like this happened to you?'

'No. I did this to myself. Just... no one cared enough to stop me. Not when it mattered, anyway.' 

The anger in his belly has subsided now, cold resentment settling in instead and he leans back against the wall, turning his head to look at Cullen's fading form. Sorrow catches him unaware, washing through him and he finds himself fighting against the gathering wetness in his eyes, the shakes that run through him,

'I thought...just one of them maybe might care enough. I thought we were friends...even if it was only Wynne or Leliana...'

He doesn't mean to speak, doesn't want to admit these things to this stranger with her kind eyes, but it's been so long since anyone's spoken to him, longer still since anyone's shown him kindness.

Her voice breaks under the grief in his chest, his sickening self pity.

'Leliana? As in...the Nightingale?'

His head snaps up at that, stray tears that he hasn't quashed falling down his cheeks as he looks to Harding.

'You knew Leliana?' she asks again, when he isn't forthcoming and he knows that somehow he's put his foot in his mouth again. This was why he had stopped talking to people...

'I...a long time ago.'

'...you're...' she pauses, eyes narrowing as she looks at him, '...you're not...Alistair...are you?'

He blanches, reeling at the sound of his name, watching as her eyes widen. Shaking his head, he attempts to ward her off.

'No...it's bastard now, remember?'

'But you're the grey warden...you could...'

'No.'

'But...'

'No. I was. I'm not anymore, Amell made sure of that. Now just...just go, leave me be.'

'You could come back to the Inquisition. Lady Nightingale...'

'Didn't care enough to do anything then. She won't now.'

'We could find a use for you. Give you a position, a fresh start...'

'What in the Maker's name has given you the impression that I want your help, dwarf?' he hisses now, anger building, and he puts as much venom into his glare as he can muster. 

'I chose this. I chose to be alone because it's not worth trying to do anymore. Not now...maybe,' he falters, feeling anger recede, a wave of grief in it's wake, '...maybe a few months ago, even. But not now. No point now. Just leave me alone.'

It's clear she doesn't understand what he's talking about from the way she stares at him, confusion present on her face, but she nods, drawing away. It's fine by him. He never wanted her help, or anyone's for that matter. Didn't deserve it anymore.

'What will you do now?' she asks eventually.

He shrugs.

'Wait for him to die,' he motions to Cullen's limp form, 'and when he's done...who knows? Maybe I'll go down to the deep roads after all.'

'Deep roads? You're...'

'There's a song in my head that pulls at my heart, and Maker knows, I'll answer it's call. One day.'  
He smirks up at her, humour dry in his throat, the words he'd once heard another warden speak so earnestly seeming hollow now. In the back of his mind, the song swells, and he knows it won't be long now until he's has to act.

After a long moment, Harding nods, reaching into a small pouch at her belt and pulling a few coins from it. Gold and silver glints in her hand, more money than he's ever seen in one place, or so it feels like, and he stares up at her, confused at her charity.

'Why?'

'You take care of him...use that to make it easier on him, if you can. And when he's gone, if there's anything left, you can buy yourself a sword and shield. At least then you might be able to take out a few darkspawn along the way.'

It's more than anyone's given him since...well, since he'd walked out of the landsmeet. But he's not stupid enough to turn down an offer of help, not any more, anyway. With a nod, he slips the coins into a pouch at his belt that's been empty for far too long.

'You promise...you'll help him?' Harding prompts, glaring down at him.

'I was doing it anyway, what makes you think coin will change that?'

'Well, you look like you might drink it all away.'

He snorts at that. It's understandable really, all things considered. Except for the fact that he couldn't even taste the ale anymore. It was more a habit that he drank nowadays.

'For what it's worth, I promise. Even if you don't believe me.'

'I...I'm going to choose to believe you.'

'Well...you'd be the first in a while.'

'Then I hope you won't let me down,' her eyes drop from his, straying over to where her former commander still lies, '...I should get going. Good luck to you, Commander,' she turns her gaze back to him, '...Alistair.'

She turns on her heel and marches away with surprising speed, back down the alley and out of sight. And just like that, Alistair finds himself alone again, save for his delirious companion and a handful of coin.

–

Cullen's health deteriorates quickly.

He knew it would, it was only a matter of time, but Alistair hadn't quite been expecting the rate at which it proved to do so. Not long after Harding's departure the former commander had been struck with a fever that showed no sign of breaking. Now, he lies motionless save for the heaving of his chest and the tremors in his limbs. There's a fine sheen of sweat covering shockingly pale skin, contrasted only by the deep purple that colours his eye sockets.

His skin is cool, Alistair finds, pressing against him in an attempt to keep him warm. The blanket he had bought was thick, good quality, but not enough. Nor were the sips of water he'd encouraged him to take, or the bites of food that had been largely ignored. He could only hope now that it was enough to ease Cullen's passing into the fade.

Which wouldn't be long, he suspected. If the rattling and wheezing of his breath and the frantic pace of his pulse beneath his skin was anything to go by.

It was strange to be the one here, strange to see life fade this way. Of course he'd witnessed death before, many times over. But never like this, not this slow, drawn out ebb of energy. The death he'd witnessed had always been quick, if bloody; purposeful, if not always meaningful. This...this was just a waste. And for it to be himself, of all people, to witnesses this man's passing was probably the worst injustice.

To watch a man who had always given everything of himself die all but alone. Nothing but a hollow shell of flesh left. Perhaps that was what happened when you gave too much. You'd lose yourself and never be able to find who you are again. 

A shudder runs through Cullen, sudden, sharp, catching his attention, and Alistair looks down. The man's brow has furrowed with pain, eyes squeezed shut, his breathing growing ever more ragged. One of his hands, trapped between them, latches onto his arm with alarming ferocity, thin fingers gripping, digging. His nails are sharp, jagged, painful against his skin and Alistair gently pries the grip from his arm, only for it to seize his hand a moment later instead.

Fingers tighten against his until knuckles blanch, and he can only wince at the pain in his hand, and what his companion must be experiencing to cling to him so tightly. There's nothing he can do to help him, except hope that Cullen is vaguely aware, that perhaps some part of him realises he's not completely alone, that one person, even the wrong person, cares.

Unbidden, he finds his lips moving, his voice croaking between hushed syllables, miming prayers to the deity he's long since stopped believing in. Or at least, believing he cares anyway. But there's a comfort to the words, even if they're hollow, a calming stroke to the rhythm of the chant and before long, he finds his voice rising, above the rasp of Cullen's breathing. 

He welcomes the way his voice, however thin, drowns out the sound of a dying man's counted breaths, the way it clears his mind of everything but the words. In the midst of his catharsis, his prayer becomes song, slow but sure as the cool night winds ever on, his voice rising until his music echoes off white stone walls. He hasn't sang in years. Decades, in fact, no heart to put into his voice for so long, but here, now, it seems fitting, to sing along with the music in his mind.

And Cullen seems not to mind too.

He shuffles against him, head rising for the first time in days, and he watches as the former commander lifts his eyes to meet his own. They're still cloudy, unfocused, but he fancies that there's some spark there that's not been present in a long time. And so he continues to sing, finding fragments of songs sang in the Chantry, words that had been familiar as a boy, holding Cullen's vacant gaze.

It's a trick of the moonlight, he reasons, watching as the man's gaze sharpens, the tarnished gold becoming bolder, brighter with each note that flows from his throat. But when he blinks and shakes his head, he still finds himself returning Cullen's gaze.

There are tears in his eyes, welling and threatening to spill, and pain, but above all recognition, realisation; his mind here, called back from where the urge for lyrium clouded all senses. 

His voice trails off, breaking, unable to maintain his note with his throat so dry, and he allows the song to die on his lips.

The silence of the night seems heavy in comparison.

'...Cullen?' he asks, tentative, his voice scratching as he speaks.

There's no response from the other man, no recognition in the gaze he holds steady with his own, until the man blinks a moment later.

'...Cullen...' He pronounces the name slowly, as if testing its shape. His voice, unused for so long, is barely above a whisper, and it cracks under even that gentle strain.

'Cullen,' he muses again after a moment, '...that is...me, isn't it?'

'Yes...you...you remember?' Alistair asks, surprise colouring his voice.

'Barely,' he breathes, golden eyes falling closed, '...how, how long has it been?'

'Since I found you, a few weeks perhaps. Since you arrived here...I couldn't say.'

'I see.'

The silence falls again, heavy, broken only by Cullen's still laboured breathing.

'You,' Cullen pauses, 'you seem...familiar. Do I know you?'

'Not really. We ran into each other now and then.'

'But you chose to help me?'

'You...looked like you needed it.'

'I see. I... thank you.'

His voice has gained some strength, though it still grates on Alistair's ears and he can't miss the hitch when Cullen swallows thickly. He turns, rummaging in the small satchel he'd bought, pulling out a wineskin and handing it to the man, noting how his hands still trembled.

'This...should help. With that.'

Cullen shakes his head, sinking down against the ground again.

'No point. I may not have all my wits intact but I know,' he swallows again, '...I know that I'll not be here much longer.'

Alistair swallows thickly, licking at dry lips, torn.

'It...might help with the pain. It's not much but...'

'No,' the word comes firm despite the wheeze and rattle that accompanies it, '...I can endure this much. It will be of more use to you.'

It's pointless to argue with him, he realises. After all, he speaks the truth and Alistair lifts the skin to his lips, taking a long swig. It sloshes over his tongue like winter air; cold, tasteless.

'You...you must have a name.' Cullen croaks into the silence after a moment. He's curled on his side, shivering, but his face is turned towards him, eyes watching.

'Does it matter?' he asks after a while, almost irritated by the weight of the man's weary gaze.

'Everything matters.'

He wants to roll his eyes, bark at this not-quite-stranger, tell him to leave him alone, to not pry. But if these are the last few moments of Cullen's life, or at least, lucidity, it seems cruel to do so. He's many things, he knows, weak and bitter, but not cruel.

'Alistair.' He murmurs, taking another long swig of wine, 'I'm...Alistair.'

'Alistair,' Cullen muses, the word clumsy on his tongue, 'You...you're not...Nightingale's Alistair?'

He snorts roughly.

'I'm not Nightingale's anything.'

'I mean to say...you were Grey Warden Alistair?'

It breaks him.

After everything he's been, everything he's lost along the way, everything he could have been and done, it's that one that makes him weep, to hear it from someone else. Were.

His shoulders shake as grief overwhelms him without warning, lips curling down hard as tears he can't afford to shed roll down his cheeks. Somewhere between the gasps for breath and tears, he nods and he understands the soft grunt that Cullen replies with.

He understands, what it means to lose everything you once were, and with it, who you were.

'I was the Commander of the Inquisition once.'

He nods.

'I know. It's...' he looks to the other man, with his pale face and weary eyes, and fresh waves of mourning hits him. He sobs now, openly, tears pattering against the cobblestone floor.

He's grateful that Cullen doesn't try to console him and when the worst of it has passed he drinks again, long and deep.

'It's not right,' he finally manages to choke out, wiping his mouth on his tattered sleeve, '...I heard what happened. He had no right.'

'Inquisitor Trevelyan?'

'Who else?'

'He...did not. But it matters little now. He gave his orders and I followed them, as I always have. As I was meant to do.'

'You didn't have to follow those orders, Cullen. Not when they took your life from you.'

There's a soft snort next to him, something akin to smile crossing the man's scarred lips, and somehow he finds the strength to push himself up, resting heavily against the wall with its flaky paint.

'Says the Grey Warden. You took an oath...you vowed to serve, as I did.'

'That was my choice. I chose to serve, even if it meant my life was forfeit.'

'As did I. I gave my life to the Chantry, and when that was no longer what I believed in, I gave it to the Inquisition.'

'Do you believe you always have to be willing to give your life to something?'

'No. But I believe the Maker made me so that I would.'

He snorts then, eyes rolling up to a starless sky.

'The Maker...'

'You have lost your faith?'

'There are times where I wonder if it was ever there. Or, if He was ever there.'

'I suspect we shall find out soon enough,' golden eyes flicker over him, taking in his state, 'but until then I choose to believe that I will find myself at his side. If I am worthy.'

'You devoted your life to Him, Cullen. I'm certain you'd be worthy, out of everyone...'

'And you were one of his Grey Wardens. They say the Maker smiles sadly upon your order...'

'They say a lot of things. I wouldn't believe all you hear.'

There's a soft smile on Cullen's lips, his eyes almost amused, and Alistair swallows once more, jealous of this man with his peace, his acceptance.

'You sang for him. It was what called me away from the lyrium...'

'I sang,' he flushes hotly, a sensation he's not felt in years, '...I sang for you. I thought it might, ah, make you feel better?'

'Well, it was certainly rousing. Or perhaps, comforting, is more appropriate. I... again. I thank you. Whatever your motive.'

Alistair nods, uneasy, trembling now as the tears cool on his cheeks, falling back into the uncomfortable silence.

'You did not correct me when I said we would see the Maker soon enough. Do you not wish to regain your life, or...?'

'My Calling started months ago,' he cuts the other man off quickly. 'There's nothing to regain.'

'I see. And you will not go to the Deep Roads?'

'I...will.'

'Good.'

'Good?'

'It is... your duty, no matter what had happened between now and then.'

He wants to snap at him, angry at the concept that he has any idea of what he should do with what remains of his life but in the back of his mind, he knows the man is right. He took an oath. He would see it to the end. 

So he simply nods, leaning his head back against the wall to look up into a pitch black sky, listening to Cullen's breathing becoming steadily more laboured. He looks to him when each breath grows short and sharp, catches golden eyes with his own as Cullen struggles, his mouth open in a half gasp.

'Is there anything I can do for you?' He asks quietly, not sure if the other man can hear him over the stuttering in his lungs. 

His head shakes, eyes fixed on the sky

'You have done enough, Alistair.' A deep breath that seems to shake every fibre of his body, 'I am glad I am not alone.'

Golden eyes roll to him once more.

'I hope I will see you at the Maker's side, Warden.'

He purses his lips, and for a second, he feels Cullen's faith seep into him and he nods.

'And I you, Commander.'

A brief nod and Cullen's head rolls back again, tilted up to the heavens, his eyes fixed on the sky once more as a ragged breath heaves through his body.

It's his last and Alistair watches as the thin body stills, limbs falling limp as what little colour was left in the man's cheeks fades completely, skin grey and lips blue. 

Cullen's eyes, glazed as they are, are fixed upon the sky.

He doesn't have the heart to reach out and close them. If the heavens were where the Maker resided, then he'd not be the one to break Cullen's gaze upon him, whether he found his side or not.

Silence descends again, broken only by his own breathing, and he looks to the blanket draped around Cullen's body, wonders if it's worth trying to sleep.

He decides against it. Lifting the wineskin to his lips and draining it, he stands, shuffling to the crate where he'd stored the few purchases he'd made with Harding's coin. There's a loose set of leather armour inside, cheap but sturdy and after some fumbling, he manages to don it, cinching it tight against his thin fleshed body. It feels odd to wear it after so long, and stranger still to lift the sword and shield he'd hidden.

They're almost too heavy and truth be told, he'd be surprised if he managed to strike down a single darkspawn before he fell. Still, he would try and fulfil that final duty.

Hefting the shield onto his back and the sword to his hip, he pauses, grabbing a small roll of bread and tearing into it. It doesn't taste of anything. It doesn't matter.

Turning to the body of the man he'd befriended for the last few moments of his life, he nods, head bent in prayer. It's the last, and perhaps the best thing he can do for him.

'Peace be with you Cullen, wherever you are.'

He turns away, taking a deep breath of cool night air and, wrapping a thin cloak about himself, walks out into the night. 

A Warden once more, until the end.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read this, if you got this far you're a star. 
> 
> Thoughts, kudos, comments and constructive criticism all greatly appreciated :)


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